


Late Night Remixes

by Theladyknight23



Series: Shining Stanzas [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, F/F, Female Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Female Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff, Geralt and Ciri are still witchers, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier just went viral and is still processing, Minor Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, With Monsters, late night monster hunting, little bit of canon typical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:41:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26188918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theladyknight23/pseuds/Theladyknight23
Summary: She had just rounded the corner when a flash of silver hair and angry glare tore at her, silver sword swinging. The sword stopped inches from her face.“Fuck!” Jaskier screamed, jumping backwards, just managing to avoid dropping her milkshake.The woman with the sword growled.----or: Jaskier joins Geralt and Ciri on a late-night monster hunt.(A modern AU of my AU, independent from the other works in the series)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Shining Stanzas [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1887478
Comments: 24
Kudos: 109





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An AU of my AU  
> 

Jaskier turned the corner, carefully holding the extra-large chocolate milkshake with both hands. It was 3am, and downtown had largely been reduced to roving clusters of loud, intoxicated revellers, seeking open nightclubs, or making their tipsy way home. Jaskier should be one of them. Would be one of them, if she hadn’t forgotten her ID in her rush to get out the door. Lack of an ID usually would be no barrier to Jaskier’s winning charm. She was more than happy to flirt with all manner of creatures if that meant getting in the door. But she was exhausted and confused and more than a little overwhelmed. This was either the best or the absolute worse time to add alcohol.

She wasn’t quite dressed for the club either. She’d attempted to give herself a dose of bravery that morning by donning all of her favourite items of clothing simultaneously. Now, many hours later, she was still wearing the bright yellow dungarees with matching tulle socks embroidered with daisies. Under the dungarees was a soft striped t-shirt she’d stolen from someone once. Her hair was caught up in a messy bun, held in place by a big yellow scrunchie. When she made the sudden decision to finally leave the apartment, she had added her candy pink faux fur coat, chucks that must have been a blue colour at one point, and a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses to the mix. It was altogether not unusual Jaskier wear, but she could hear the snickers and whispers as a tipsy bridal party clicked past on high heels. Jaskier lifted up the sunglasses to flash the women a smile. It may have been the alcohol, but at least one of them seemed to blush. Good. Even in the midst of a breakdown she still had it.

Jaskier flicked the sunglasses back over her eyes, checked her bangs, and continued to saunter down the street. 

While she had forgotten her ID and her wallet, she had remembered to grab her ukulele, and there were a couple of crumbled fives inside the case. So when she saw the blinking signs of the 24 hour McDonald's, she decided that while getting shit-faced was fun, ice cream might be what she actually needed.

Now, milkshake secured, all she wanted was to find a good curb to collapse down on. Complete the perfect tableau of celebrity meltdown. She may have only been a ‘star’ for fifteen hours, but it was important to respect the traditional rituals of fame.

She had just rounded the corner when a flash of silver hair and angry glare tore at her, silver sword swinging. The sword stopped inches from her face.

“Fuck!” Jaskier screamed, jumping backwards, just managing to avoid dropping her milkshake.

The woman with the sword growled.

“What the hell are you doing with that?!” Jaskier demanded.

The woman looked stiffly at the sword and then back at Jaskier. “Tracking barghests.”

“What the fuck?”

“Demonic, phantom canines that hunt in packs. Traditionally considered omens of death and ill fortune, recorded in Northern English histories.” The woman saw Jaskier’s confusion and continued with a sigh, “Demon dog.” The simplistic definition seemed to physically pain her.

This really did not clarify anything. But in the past twenty-four hours Jaskier had been dumped, had her rant about her ex go viral, been offered two different record deals, realized that all her past material was crap, and started crying when the poor employee at McDonald's told her they were out of M&M McFlurries. This might as well happen.

She may or may not be going into shock now. She had almost been sliced in half mid-breakdown after all. And apparently there were also demon dogs to worry about now? All she had wanted was to have a nice little panic attack in an abandoned parking lot in the middle of the night like a normal person. Maybe strum her ukulele a bit.

The woman was staring at her as if Jaskier was the odd duck here. As if she was the one wearing a weird (and yet so delightfully aesthetic) assortment of modern clothing, medieval weaponry and leather armour. There were a couple of slices and burn marks in her black jeans, a knife strapped to her left leg, and dark leather pads over her knees. A worn leather jacket was layered over a black leather breastplate studded with silver rivets. Several leather straps and belts crossed over this, holding another sword in place on her back. Her silver-grey hair was shorn short. She finished off the look with a nice scowl.

A movement behind the woman pulled Jaskier’s attention away. It was a girl. Her silver-grey hair was swept up into a ponytail. She wore a similar assortment of armour, with patched jeans and a blue hoodie.

“And who the hell is this?” shouted Jaskier, throwing out a hand to point at the literal child dogging the angry woman’s footsteps, wielding her own smaller sword.

“This is Cirilla,” the woman said stiffly. “She’s my ward.”

“Your ward?” sputtered Jaskier. “What are you, fifty?”

“What.”

“It’s 3 am, what the fuck is this little kid doing out here? She’s like five!”

“I’m twelve,” said Cirilla, scornfully.

Jaskier waved a hand dismissively. Five. Twelve. What difference did it make? It was the middle of the night and someone thought now was a good idea to give a small child a sword.

“Ciri is training with me. Joining this hunt is part of that.”

The woman turned away, clearly deciding that this conversation was over. Ciri hurried to follow.

“Wait! You can’t just leave me!”

The woman turned, a long-suffering expression on her face.

“What the fuck do you want now?”

“I don’t even know your name!”

“Geralt,” said the woman. She turned on her heel, making to stride away.

“Wait!”

“What.” Geralt growled. She marched up to Jaskier until she was inches away, and Jaskier could practically feel the annoyance radiating off of her. She was terrifying like this. And those eyes. Gods Jaskier was gone on her already.

“I’m coming with you! I desperately need material for new songs and you are the most interesting thing I have ever seen.”

“No.”

Jaskier took a step closer, they truly were quite close now.

“You almost killed me! You owe me. And it’s not safe here! You just said there is some kind of freaky demon dog around.”

Geralt looked away, mouth tightening into a firm line. “Fine,” she said finally. “But you have to shut your mouth and stay back.”

Jaskier drew a finger across her mouth. “Not a peep from me, I promise.”

Geralt sighed. She looked as if she seriously doubted this.

“Come on Ciri. We’ve wasted enough time.” Geralt took off into a light jog, the girl following behind.

Jaskier was intently thankful she had selected somewhat appropriate footwear and attire for her 3 am breakdown. Throwing the remains of her milkshake in the garbage, she hurried to follow.

“Wait! What exactly are you people? Why are you doing this? What is the deal with these demon dogs?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't stop, won't stop I guess?  
> A modern AU with my version of these characters, wherein I continue to take enormous liberties.  
> Not technically connected with the other parts of the series (but you should read them because they are also fun).
> 
> References for Jaskier's outfit:  
> [dungarees](https://www.instagram.com/p/CEjCgFKBkto/?utm_source=ig_web_button_share_sheet%E2%80%9D%20rel=)  
> [daisy tulle socks](https://lirikamatoshi.com/collections/socks/products/daisy-tulle-socks-1)  
> [pink faux fur coat](https://www.depop.com/products/thomas_wel-hm-trend-fake-fur-pink-2/)  
> [sunglass inspiration](https://poisonousbuttercup.tumblr.com/post/627627106102329344)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The incredibly talented @nixmhxllen on Instagram has drawn Jaskier's truly [chaotic outfit](https://www.instagram.com/p/CIr1ypbAIzm/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) with the absolutely perfect expression of internal screaming after running into the ghoul! Please check it out and give them some love!

Geralt and Ciri strode through the night as if it belonged to them.

Jaskier would catch a glimpse of them in the beam thrown by the streetlights, silver swords shining sharply, before plunging back into the shadows. Neon signs turned their pale hair purple, green, blue, yellow as they stepped surely over the cracked concrete and uneven cobbles.

Jaskier bit back a curse and forced herself to go faster, holding the strap of her ukulele case against her chest as it thudded against her back. She could feel her hair slipping out of the scrunchie. Hopefully she could scrounge an elastic off one of them.

Luckily her two mysterious monster hunters eventually slowed to walk. Clutching a stitch at her side, Jaskier huffed her way over to join them.

“I’m Jaskier, by the way.” She offered, still struggling to get her breathing under control. “Did I mention how much I love this whole sword and jeans look? Because it is definitely a look. And those are some very nice swords. Now about the demon dogs you are hunting—” 

Geralt’s face twisted with exasperation. “You told me you’d be quiet.”

“I meant during a fight. You aren’t fighting anything right now. I think I deserve to know what is going on here.”

“I’m training to be a Witcher like Geralt—” started Ciri, stopping when Geralt gave her a look.

“Witcher?”

“Witchers are monster hunters, specifically trained and exposed to mutagenic compounds to enhance our physical and magical abilities. There used to be many of us—but there are less now. We patrol the city at night. Others do the same in other cities.”

“So like monster fighting X-Men?”

“No.”

“I mean technically,” piped up Ciri.

“No,” growled Geralt, going back to glaring at dark corners. Jaskier caught Ciri hiding a smile. It sounded like this was a familiar exchange.

“So there have always been monsters and Witchers going around slaying them and people don’t know?”

“The people that need to know do.”

“That’s crazy! I can’t believe I never saw any of this before.” Jaskier waved her arms wide to take in the two Witchers and the night around them.

“You aren’t very observant,” said Geralt, striding forward.

Jaskier stuck her tongue out at Geralt’s back and fell into step beside Ciri.

Her mind was spinning. There was this entire world supposedly existing just beyond her life, lurking in the shadows of her city. Monsters, Witchers and magic. It was exhilarating, terrifying and impossible. But Geralt and Ciri carried those swords like they meant something.

This might as well be true. Everything was true at 3 am. 

Jaskier turned to the girl beside her as they walked. Ciri looked so young, and yet the firm set of her jaw and her sharp eyes were so determined. This was a girl who strode into the dark, her head held high, spine like steel. Jaskier tried to remember what she had been doing when she was twelve. Playing Neopets? Reading illicit fanfiction on the family computer when her parents were asleep? Pinning over some boy or girl from school? Recording herself singing shitty covers of pop songs and posting them on the internet? Not this, that was for sure.

Pulling out her scrunchie and bullying her hair back into a semblance of a bun, Jaskier decided it was time to get one of the Witchers on her side. 

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Jaskier said, “I didn’t mean to make you mad. It’s just you look quite young to be running around in the middle of the night with a sword.”

Ciri contemplated Jaskier’s apology for a moment before nodding slowly.

“It’s okay.”

“I love your boots,” said Jaskier, pointing down at Ciri’s black doc martens. They looked like ideal stomping boots, Jaskier really would have to look into getting a pair.

Ciri smiled. “Thanks! I like your socks.”

“Ciri,” snapped Geralt. Ciri immediately went back to surveying the shadows, sword held at the ready. Geralt looked over her shoulder to glare at Jaskier, and Jaskier grinned. This truly was significantly more fun than crying alone over her ukulele, and a much better distraction.

Jaskier had been out this late before of course. With friends and alone, clubbing or busking or performing or drinking herself silly. She regularly slept past noon. The way the wet pavement shone in the streetlights, the flickering signs of the 24-hour shops, the wild untethered feeling of being awake when everyone else was sleeping, these were all familiar. It all felt different now walking alongside Geralt and Ciri. Geralt kept glaring into shadows, tense and ready to spring. Ciri looked like she was bracing for something. Jaskier fidgeted with her uke case strap and tried to make out what they were searching so intently for, but all she saw was a couple of abandoned chip bags and empty coffee cups.

They largely had the night to themselves now that they had moved away from the main streets.

At one point a small party passed on the opposite side of the road, looking as if they were on their way home. One woman, with a large ornate pin on her jacket, turned and nodded at Geralt. There was something different about her, something that sent a shiver down Jaskier’s back. Then the woman looked away, and the moment was gone.

“Uh who was that?” asked Jaskier once they had left the group behind.

Geralt grunted.

“Geralt,” said Jaskier, really drawing the name out.

“A decision I haven’t made,” Geralt hummed sharply. “Monsters aren’t always the monstrous ones.” She didn’t seem inclined to speak further on the matter.

Jaskier lingered with that for a moment. With the idea of various types of monsters. There was something different about that woman, and the woman now walking intently before her carrying a sword like an extension of her arm, but neither of them seemed horrifying. Jaskier had met her fair share of monstrous humans over the years, and recently seen her video on one particularly repulsive individual and the various horrendous deaths she’d like to inflict upon them sweep chaotically across the internet. She was beginning to suspect this underworld of creatures and Witchers was more complicated then it looked.

She wasn’t given long to think, however, before Ciri spoke.

“Geralt,” she said, voice tight.

Geralt immediately followed Ciri’s gaze, holding her own sword ready. “Ghoul,” she muttered, golden eyes fixed on something Jaskier couldn’t make out. “Ciri get ready.”

“What’s happening?” asked Jaskier.

Geralt absently waved an arm at Jaskier, gesturing at her to stay back.

Suddenly something launched itself out of the dark alley, pounding forward on four legs. It almost looked like a human corpse, but a human corpse whose limbs had been twisted and mangled beyond comprehension. It howled, lurching forward, long spikey talons skidding over the concrete, sinew and rotting flesh clinging to its bloody maw.

“Oh shit!” screamed Jaskier, tripping backwards as Ciri and Geralt rushed at the creature. Jaskier fell hard to the ground and frantically pushed herself away from the disgusting beast, ignoring her skinned palms. _What the hell was that thing?!_ Jaskier continued until she found the brick wall opposite the alley, pulling her uke from her back to cradle it desperately in her arms. She kept up a steady chant of “fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck” like some kind of manic prayer as she watched Ciri and Geralt jump into action, weaving quickly around the ghoul. Geralt lashed out at the creature with her sword in fast slashes, while Ciri worked to make her way around it. They both kept in constant motion, evading the swinging claws and snapping teeth. With each cut the creature seemed to grow more madly frantic, shrieking and clawing desperately at the Witchers. With Geralt holding the bulk of the ghoul’s attention with her relentless barrage of blows, Ciri took up position behind it. When the ghoul wildly lurched for Geralt, neck extended, Ciri swung out, slicing her sword through the ghoul’s neck. It fell to the concrete with two wet thuds.

This was horrifying, thrilling and Jaskier could feel the beat of her pulse echoing loudly in her ears. She needed to pass out, she needed to breathe into a paper bag, she needed to get closer and see what exactly that thing was. While Jaskier wrestled with this, Geralt and Ciri efficiently cleaned their swords. Geralt clapped Ciri on the shoulder, giving her an approving nod. Then Geralt made a sharp, deliberate gesture, and fire spurted forth, engulfing the ghoul in a tight, controlled flame.

Jaskier’s hand moved from her mouth to hold her forehead. Maybe she did need to lay down. She was almost certain she had been in some kind of extended state of shock before, but now the idea of monsters and Witchers was terrifyingly real and staring her right in the face. She had just watched two random strangers hack apart an undead creature. These Witchers might be the most amazing thing that had ever happened to her. Also she might need to vomit.

Jaskier was beginning to regret not seeking out alcohol earlier. The warm vodka cooler she had downed at 2 pm after discovering it in the back of a cupboard seemed a faint and wistful memory.

“Geralt,” said Ciri, voice distant. “I think something’s wrong with Jaskier.”

“Jaskier.”

Someone was snapping in her face. Jaskier jumped, staggering out of her spiralling thoughts. Geralt was kneeling beside Jaskier, a look that could almost be described as concerned, if one was to squint, on her face. Mainly she just looked annoyed. Her eyes felt like golden beams cutting through Jaskier.

“What in the fresh hell was that,” managed Jaskier, her heart pounding again for an entirely different reason.

“Are you okay?” asked Ciri, suddenly quite close, and Jaskier jumped again. “You went really pale back there.”

“I’m fine. Everything is hunky-dory. It’s just, you know, my first ghoul,” Jaskier tried to pull herself to her feet, but found her knees weren’t quite up to the task yet. Geralt offered her a hand, and Jaskier gratefully took it. For a beat, something that really was concern seemed to slip across Geralt’s stern features. Concern and maybe appreciation? Which didn’t really make sense, but Jaskier didn’t have the capacity to examine that further right now. She particularly didn’t have time to think about the way Geralt’s hand flexed and tightened after letting go of her own.

The flames around the ghoul were dying now, leaving only an inky black smudge of ashes in its wake.

“Right so who is gonna tell me exactly what that was?” said Jaskier, putting her hands on her hips. A confident exterior was the first step to a slightly less panicked mind.

“A ghoul,” offered Ciri.

“Yes, I’ve gathered that. What is a ghoul? And what exactly is up with the fire?”

“Why do you need to know?” demanded Geralt.

“Because—” Jaskier grinned wide and toothy. “Because I am going to write a song about this fight. Actually, an entire series of songs if enough things happen tonight.” 

Geralt’s mouth tightened into a firm frown. “No.”

“C’mon! No one will believe me anyway.”

“She’s right you know,” said Ciri.

“I’ll use lots of similes and flowery language and everyone will think ghouls are a metaphor for depression or something.”

“hmm. Fine,” growled Geralt, going over to examine the ashes. “Ciri explain it Jaskier.”

Ciri scrunched up her nose for a second, eyes closed, carefully recalling something. “Okay. Ghouls are scavengers that are driven by an unquenchable desire for human flesh--”

“What,” squawked Jaskier.

“They prefer fresh dead but they will also eat the living if nothing else is around. They typically hunt in small groups at night and were traditionally found in cemeteries and battlefields, but with the growth of the city we find them here more often scrounging for scraps.”

“Okay well thank you for that horrifying lesson. And the fire?”

“The fire was a Sign,” said Geralt, still staring down at the ashes. “We burn the remains to keep this hidden. We work at night, when the beasts are most dangerous, to stay away from prying eyes.” Geralt looked to Ciri then, jaw tight. Jaskier shivered, imagining endless nights of Geralt and Ciri throwing themselves into danger, fighting for people who didn’t even know they were being protected.

“We need to keep moving,” Geralt said finally, and started forward, Ciri at her side.

With a final look at the ashes, Jaskier hurried to join them.

They walked in silence for a while, tracing through the endless city streets, Jaskier staring at her companions with new-found awe, when Geralt abruptly stopped and knelt down.

“Fuck,” she said.

Ciri scrambled down to join her, peering down at the patch of concrete. “Is that?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Geralt.

“Is that what?” demanded Jaskier, squatting down beside them. 

Geralt turned to look at Jaskier, a frown cutting across her face. “Proof the barghest pack is larger than we thought.”

Geralt pulled herself to her feet. “We’ll have to visit Yen.”

Ciri frowned. “But I wanted to prove—”

“No. We’ll need more supplies and she will kill me if you get hurt.”

“What the fuck is a Yen?” asked Jaskier, as Geralt and Ciri began to walk away. “Geralt?” she shouted. “Geralt!”

Swearing, Jaskier jumped to follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: *flips down her heart-shaped sunglasses to look at the ghoul*  
> Jaskier: yeah this is not helping


	3. Chapter 3

It was becoming increasingly clear that Jaskier needed more sources of adrenaline in her daily life. Her heart was racing and her veins were humming. Her fingers itched with the need to write, to play, to capture this feeling. She was a whirlwind of emotions, terror and joy and excitement and fear. She had never felt so fucking alive. If she was to open her mouth, a symphony would surely come pouring out. The encounter with the ghoul had been unlike anything she had ever experienced before, a vivid collision between the world she once knew and a world of Witchers throwing themselves at monsters while the city slept. She was lucky she hadn’t pissed her dungarees. She had torn the curtain back, flung herself down the rabbit hole, and there was no return now. She couldn’t imagine going back to not knowing the truth, to just being another passing partier in the night, eyes skittering over the grimness of this underworld. There was music here, stories to uncover, and an angry woman with golden eyes and a sword.

Now she was following her Witchers—she had decided they were _hers_ about four seconds after Geralt’s first glare and Ciri’s snickering smile—as they tracked an even greater threat, a pack of demon beasts. The thought should terrify her, and it did, but a larger part of her was desperate to see what happened next.

Geralt led them to an innocuous-looking door, set amongst a long line of similar front doors near the docks. These were a series of houses, built back in the beginnings of the city. The years were evident in the worn brick, the cobblestone streets, and the high price tag of the neighbourhood. There were a couple of pubs Jaskier had frequented around here, fancy gastro pubs that liked to feature ‘local’ talent on certain advertised nights, but she had never actually been in any of the nearby flats. As they drew close to the door, Jaskier made out the little window box bursting with flowers, and the trailing vines of a climbing plant creeping its way up the brick around the door.

Geralt banged her fist against the door. There was no answer. Geralt banged again.

With the sharp metallic click of the latch, the door was suddenly flung open.

“What do you want,” demanded an exasperated woman, violet gaze softening only somewhat when she took in who stood before her.

For the second time that night, Jaskier was faced with a gorgeous woman, her poor heart skipping a beat. This woman stood proudly in her doorway, making no move to pull the cashmere robe closer to cover her short silk nightgown. She wasn’t waving a sword in Jaskier’s face, but Jaskier was immediately struck by the thought that this woman was infinitely more intimating then Geralt. It was something in the set of her jaw, the hunger in her eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that Yennefer. You were already awake,” said Geralt.

Yennefer turned her violet gaze on Jaskier, and Jaskier shivered. “Who is this?”

“Jaskier,” said Geralt, shouldering past Yennefer and walking inside.

“That’s not an answer,” said Yennefer, glaring at Geralt. Her face twisted from annoyance to something much kinder when she turned back to Ciri. She reached out to set a hand on Ciri’s shoulder. “Cub,” she said, the name ringing with years of affection and care.

“Hi Yen,” Ciri said, managing a smile though it was clear something was still bothering her, following Geralt inside.

Then it was Jaskier’s turn.

Yennefer raised an appraising eyebrow, eyes sweeping over Jaskier’s coat.

“How many Muppets did you skin for that?” she asked dryly.

“Five,” said Jaskier brightly, slipping around the woman.

The house was even more opulent than the exterior suggested and twice as large. The door opened onto an entryway that led into a large open concept living room, dining space and study. The second floor had been removed at some point, leaving the ceiling stretching far above their heads, making the room feel airy and endless. At the far wall was a bank of massive paned windows, and Jaskier could just make out the dark rolling waters of the river through the glass. On the left side, a finely wrought wood and iron staircase made its way to the upper floors. Wooden shelves lined every available surface, overflowing with an assortment of books, jars filled with mysterious substances, antique objects, and plants. The kitchen was full of expensive stainless steel appliances, the living room furnished with lush leather chairs and thick wooden tables. In the far corner, a massive desk was covered in layers of books, pens and piles of notes, a visual embodiment of an academic’s frantic mind. Yennefer’s home was a marvellous collision of a library, a vintage greenhouse, a luxurious apartment photoset from Pinterest, and a set dresser's vision of a wizard’s study. It was fantastic, and Jaskier was seized by the desire to explore. Yet, she was also acutely aware that everything in this cozy, yet industrial wonderland, was definitely worth far more than she currently had in her bank account. So she shoved her hands into her pockets and tried not to think about touching the hovering solar system that was currently floating and slowly turning on its own accord. This Yennefer woman was definitely part of the magical underworld Jaskier had tumbled her way into.

“What brings you by Geralt?” asked Yennefer, running a hand over the back of one of the couches, an action that seemed both casual and carefully calculated to show her best angle to everyone in the room.

“Ciri and I are hunting a pack of barghests. We need more supplies.”

Yennefer stiffened. “Care to explain why you are taking Ciri on such a dangerous hunt? Last time I checked you did care about her general wellbeing, but perhaps I’m mistaken.”

“Yen,” started Geralt, looking back and forth between Ciri and Yennefer, hand raised in an attempt at a placating gesture. Ciri scowled, collapsing angrily onto the couch with a huff, setting her sword down with a clatter. She glared out at all of them, arms crossed, the picture of pre-teenage angst. Yen opened her mouth to speak, but Geralt quickly drew her into the kitchen, ignoring the fury on her face. They began to speak in sharp whispers, words like daggers flying between them, Yennefer’s fingers flaring blue sparks. Jaskier could only hear the faintest bits of the conversation, catching ‘promise’, ‘danger’, ‘death’ and ‘Ciri’ before their voices dipped low again. But Jaskier could feel their anger, the fierceness of their debate. This was not a simple disagreement. This was clearly an old argument, made bitter from years of worrying old wounds, tearing open old scars.

Having nothing else to do, besides hovering awkwardly around this family drama, Jaskier took off her coat and settled down on the soft leather couch beside Ciri. The girl was still resolutely glaring at her boots, steadfastly ignoring Geralt and Yennefer’s argument. Jaskier held her ukulele in her lap, quite certain that now was not the time to play, no matter how much her fingers itched.

She had to say something though. Jaskier didn’t do silence.

“You were very impressive with that ghoul back there. I was scared shitless.”

Ciri huffed, her voice bitter and hurt. “Really? Because everyone else thinks I’m a stupid baby.”

Jaskier thought of Geralt setting a proud hand on Ciri’s shoulder after the fight. “I’m new here, but Geralt seems to think you’re good with that sword of yours.”

Ciri’s scowl faltered for a moment, “Yeah. Geralt understands.” She quickly forced the grimace back into place.

“Understands what?”

“That this is what I’m meant to do! What I was born to do,” Ciri turned to Jaskier then, eyes gleaming, “It’s my destiny to fight monsters, to protect the world. And I can’t do that if they don’t let me learn! They need to let me face my own tests!” 

She looked so young to full of such purpose, to be so certain of her future.

“Ciri?” said a tired voice suddenly, from somewhere above them. Jaskier quickly craned her head around to look.

A woman was descending the stairs, a large black cat in her arms. She was wearing a pair of red flannel pyjamas, her gathered up curls held in place with a blue silk scarf.

“What all this noise about? I thought you were out with Geralt tonight?”

“Hi Triss,” said Ciri. “We’re just stopping by to pick up supplies. But now Yen and Geralt are fighting about letting me go. Which isn’t fair because I’ve spent weeks arguing for tonight!”

Triss nodded sympathetically. The cat in her arms worked its way free and tore back up the stairs.

“And who is this?” she asked, settling down on the chair beside the couch, looking at Jaskier. Her face looked kind, but Jaskier could practically feel the flood of power beneath her softness.

“This is Jaskier,” said Ciri.

“But who is this Jaskier?” demanded Yen, striding over from the kitchen, the argument apparently concluded. She looked down at the ukulele in Jaskier’s hands and sneered. “You’ve picked yourself up a bard, Geralt? How medieval of you.”

“What?” asked Jaskier, but no one was listening. It was perhaps slightly comforting to know that word of her YouTube infamy had not yet reached the magical underbelly of the city. None of these terrifying women seemed to have any idea who she was.

“I almost hit her with my sword earlier. There are a lot of creatures lurking on the streets tonight so I said she could come with us” said Geralt, taking up a spot beside Yen, arms crossed.

“You’re slipping Geralt,” said Yennefer sharply. “Your medallion should have deterred any human leeches.”

“She did almost whack Jaskier with the sword,” said Ciri. “The medallion can only do so much.”

“Hey! So me not noticing the monsters has nothing to do with how observant I am? What medallion?” demanded Jaskier. Again, no one was listening to her. This was starting to get truly infuriating. Jaskier was not made to be ignored.

“I could wipe her memory for you,” said Yennefer, looking back and forth between Geralt and Jaskier, a sly grin on her lips. “But I want to see what happens.”

Geralt scowled and quickly looked away. Jaskier met Yennefer’s eyes and managed a broad beam of her own. She was a performer, after all, she couldn’t let this dramatic witch outdo her.

“I’m not going anywhere,” said Jaskier firmly. “Geralt told me I could stay and record the stories of the night.”

“It’s mage not witch,” said Yennefer before striding away to settle on the armrest beside Triss. Jaskier was left sputtering, seized by an overwhelming desire to give her brain a bath. Yennefer shot Jaskier a self-satisfied grin.

“Can we get back to what we came here for?” shouted Ciri. “Are we hunting or not?”

“We’re hunting,” said Geralt.

Yennefer stiffened but nodded grimly. “Fine.” She spat. “But this is on you Geralt. You have to keep her safe.” Yen stood and gracefully moved over to a shelf full of shinning glass bottles.

“How do you know I won’t be keeping Geralt safe?” demanded Ciri, jumping to her feet and taking up her sword. Yennefer handed off three bottles to Geralt, giving Ciri an indulgent look.

“Stay safe Cub. Call if you need us,” said Yen, folding Ciri into a hug. Triss stood and pulled Ciri into a hug of her own, before heading back upstairs, pleading an early morning.

Ciri, practically bouncing in her eagerness to get going, hurried to the front entryway. Jaskier followed, throwing on her coat. Together, they looked back at Geralt and Yennefer, who stood in quiet conversation, heads close together.

Jaskier couldn’t hold back her curiosity any longer. “Were they together? Are they together?” 

“They were once. When I was little,” said Ciri. “But it didn’t work. They’re almost friends now though, and Yen has Triss.”

“And Geralt?” it felt like too big of a question, but she had to ask it.

Ciri leaned back against the wall, idly running her fingers down her sheathed sword. “Geralt says she’s too busy training me and hunting monsters.”

“Huh,” said Jaskier, looking at the Witcher. 

“Geralt!” shouted Ciri. “Let’s go!”

Geralt raised a hand in acknowledgement and walked to the door with Yen.

“If you get her killed I will personally rip your throat out,” said Yennefer.

“Pleasure as always Yen,” said Geralt, leading Ciri and Jaskier out into the night.

It was cold and dark after the warmth of Yennefer’s home, but it was only now, back on the street, that Jaskier felt like she could properly draw air into her lungs. She would have to stick with her vicious, heavily armed monster hunters, mages were too much for her.

“So that was Yennefer,” said Jaskier when they had left the row of fancy brick houses behind.

“She’s a fiercely powerful mage,” said Geralt.

“And the ex that you’re currently co-parenting a twelve-year-old with?”

Geralt sighed. “Yes.”

“Well, that sounds like fun” laughed Jaskier.

Geralt hummed sharply in reply, Ciri smirked.

“Onward to the freaky demon canines from hell then?” asked Jaskier.

“Yep!” said Ciri, raising her sword.

An agonized scream slashed through the night.

“Fuck,” spat Geralt.

They took off at a run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone and anyone continuing to follow along with this incredibly self-indulgent AU
> 
> Everyone has a private Pinterest board called 'Witcher' full of pictures of fancy apartments, swords and brightly coloured clothing, right?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: violence, dead body

There was nothing to do but to race through the night, praying they were not too late. Jaskier’s world was reduced to frantic gasps, the sharp metallic ring in her mouth, and the pounding of heavy boots on cold concrete. She kept her eyes locked on Geralt’s back and tried not to think what it meant that the screams had now subsided to suffocating silence.

They found the remains after five minutes of running hard through the dark streets. Jaskier took one look and spun around, stomach-churning. Ciri whimpered and Geralt firmly told her to look away. Jaskier knew consciously that the bloody mass she glimpsed smeared across the ground had once been alive, but her mind struggled to make the connection between this horror and a living being. Much of the body had to be missing, torn away and eaten by large beasts with sharp teeth and ravenous maws. Jaskier covered her mouth with a hand, unsure if this was to stifle a scream, hold back a cry or to block the contents of her stomach attempts to escape, or a combination of the three. The encounter with the ghoul had been nothing to this. All her allusions to children’s literature seemed petty and ridiculous when faced with this death. The truth of this underworld, the city running alongside her city, was vicious and brutal. She was no Alice, no Dorothy. This hard reality was weary warriors, arriving too late to save the screams. 

Jaskier jumped when Geralt set a firm hand on her back, leading her and Ciri away. There was nothing they could do here now. They continued until the body was a bloody stain in the corner of their vision. It was only then that Geralt stopped and kneeled, pulling out the bottles from Yennefer. Ciri quickly joined her, silently taking one of the bottles and smearing the substance across her sword, careful to distribute the potion evenly, her small face twisted in concentration.

“Jaskier,” said Geralt, looking up from where she was carefully coating her own blade. “You can go. Find the next open store and stay inside. Or run back to Yen and Triss, they’ll let you stay, keep you safe.” It had been less than two hours since she had met Geralt, since her attempts to execute the picture of a perfect breakdown had been forcefully halted by a woman waving a sword, but it felt like she had known her Witchers forever. Since their disastrous meeting, Geralt had offered grunts, hums and glares in response to Jaskier’s questions and demands, her face stern and stoic, with only a hint of something kinder stealing through the cracks. The softness she offered now was so open and jarring it set Jaskier’s knees trembling. Geralt looked worried, and that terrified Jaskier.

Jaskier thought about running. With the beat of her heart in her ears and a bloody mess in the corner of her eyes, it was incredibly tempting to flee. She was no monster hunter. She was a twenty-five-year-old busker, with a moderate YouTube following, a slightly successful Patreon and a handful of regular musical students. Her personal life was a hot mess and her professional life was in glorious shambles. She didn’t even own a pocket knife, let alone a sword. Geralt was offering her this moment to escape, she would not think any less of Jaskier for going. But she had sauntered up to Geralt and demanded the Witcher take her along. She had levelly looked Yennefer in those terrifying violet eyes and declared that she was there to stay. She thought of Geralt, how she lonely she looked, even when verbally sparring with Yen, or gruffly smiling at Ciri. Geralt was someone who isolated herself, who took on the burden and did her duty. She gave silly musicians who barrelled their way into her life a chance to escape before everything got worse. Jaskier was a fool, a coward and a walking embodiment of a human mess. But she had promised she would stay and she intended to keep that promise.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jaskier said firmly and caught the way Geralt’s eyes widened briefly in surprise, the twitch of her mouth. “Besides, it’s a lot safer beside two masterful monster hunters then out there in the dark by myself,” she added kneeling down beside Ciri.

Geralt nodded stiffly and turned to Ciri. “We should call Yen-”

“No!” snapped Ciri. “This is my test, this is my chance to prove that I can hunt without magical backup. She’ll make me wait until next year if I don’t do this tonight.” Ciri turned her pleading eyes on Geralt, “Please. I promise I can do this.”

Geralt’s jaw tightened. She looked at Ciri for a long moment, neither Witcher saying anything. Finally, she broke.

“Fine,” Geralt grunted, “But if it gets bad we retreat.”

Ciri nodded and got to her feet.

“What do we do about-” asked Jaskier awkwardly, gesturing back to the body, as she stood. She couldn’t bring herself to actually describe it out loud.

Geralt hummed sharply. “After. The barghests are still close.”

They walked forward in tight formation, Geralt in front and to the right of Jaskier, while Ciri was behind and to her left. Both Witchers held their swords at the ready, constantly searching their surroundings. Before they left the body, Geralt had downed the third potion, her golden eyes becoming dark shining orbs.

“To help me see,” she grunted, in response to Jaskier’s curious look.

Now Geralt cast her gaze across the surrounding streets, her head twitching at every sound. One particularly loud raccoon gave Jaskier a small heart attack when it raced by them, streaking over the concrete like it was being chased by the hounds of hell.

Geralt grunted, “we’re getting closer.” Ciri nodded, tightening the grip on her sword. Ciri stood firmly, but Jaskier could just make out the small tremble in her hand. Jaskier, for her part, had tucked her sunglasses in the front pocket of her dungarees, and lacking a weapon of any kind, was now holding her uke case in front of her like a makeshift club. It was a hard case, purple and covered in stickers from various venues, and it would hopefully do some damage if it came to it. Jaskier would prefer not to bash her beloved ukulele into the face of some monstrous creature, but needs must.

Geralt raised the cry moments before the attack. A beat later and there were three barghests surrounding them, snapping teeth dripping with spectral green fire, thick corded muscles tensed to spring. They were massive, twice the size of any dog Jaskier had ever seen. Their noses were hollow gashes in the tight flesh stretched taut across their skeletal faces, with deep glowing pits for eyes. Paws ended in thick, sharp claws, grinding across the concrete. They had both a horrifyingly physical presence, while an incorporeal afterimage streamed behind them, verdant fires licking the ground at their feet.

“Fuck,” whispered Jaskier.

The barghest surged forward to attack, and Jaskier felt a firm arm around her waist. Geralt was beside her, pulling Ciri close, and throwing up a hand. A faintly gold, translucent wall sprang up around them, just halting the barghests’ attack. The demonic creatures slammed hard against the wall, and Geralt’s hand shook, her mouth drawn into a sharp line.

“Ciri. Get ready,” she said gruffly, as the barghests continued to try their defences. They appeared to be breathing fire now, testing the worth of Geralt’s shield with teeth, claw and flame.

“What are you doing?” demanded Jaskier, as Geralt began to lower her hand.

“We can’t fight them from in here,” she looked at Jaskier then, eyes searching. Jaskier took a deep breath and met her gaze steadily. It was far too late to back out now.

“Stay back,” Geralt said, “stay safe.”

Jaskier managed to paste on a grin, and Geralt hummed sharply, which was practically the surly Witcher’s version of a reassuring smile.

Geralt let her hand drop. The creatures were on them in an instant.

One of the barghests made for Jaskier but Geralt cut them off. Swinging her sword, she distracted two of the creatures with her furious blaze of attacks. Ciri took the third barghest, sword slicing as she attempted to hold back the beast, which was moving at quick speeds, glowing jaw snapping. As the Witchers fought, Jaskier tried to find a wall to put her back to, something to cover her, but they had encountered the creatures in the middle of a courtyard, one of those open areas of the city that fills up with vendors and tourists on bright summer days. Jaskier had no intention of dying in a city square, particularly one known for its cheap sunglass vendors. These frantic thoughts were interrupted when Ciri cried out in pain, wrestling to free her arm from the barghest’s jaw, her sword flailing limply in the captured hand. Geralt immediately surged forward to help, but was prevented by the sudden arrival of two more of the creatures, looming even larger than the members of the pack already surrounding them. Ciri pounded her fist into the barghest’s head, shrieking, and Jaskier raced over. With a howl, she bashed her uke case into the side of the creature. The sudden attack seemed to startle more than injure the creature, but it was enough to free Ciri’s arm from its grasp. Ciri quickly darted back, her arm dripping blood. Tightening her jaw against the pain, she took her sword up in her other hand, her right arm now hanging uselessly at her side. The barghest clicked its skeletal maw, mouth lighting up with sickly green flames, but before it could release the fire, Jaskier struck it in the face with an almighty heave. The barghest Jaskier struck seemed temporarily stunned. Jaskier cast a frantic glance over to Geralt, who was now fending off three of the creatures, with a spinning, darting attack. _But where was the fifth?_

“Jaskier!” shrieked Ciri.

Jaskier turned but it was too late. The creature was on her back, clawing madly away at her, tearing through her coat and into her side. Jaskier screamed, and dropped to the ground hard with the sudden weight of the creature, her uke case skidding away from her. Wriggling under its attack, she frantically extracted herself out of her coat, leaving her beloved pink faux fur jacket to the beast’s snapping teeth. The barghest tore into the coat, attacking it viciously, giving Jaskier time to scramble away. There were holes in her dungarees, and she could feel the sharp wet sting of blood and grit on her hands and knees.

Ciri raced forward and used the creature’s distraction to attack, leaning with all her weight to drive the blade deep inside. The creature gurgled horrifically, mouth lighting up before stilling, the fire inside dying.

A great shout to their left caught Jaskier’s frantic attention, and she watched as Geralt drove her own blade through a barghest. There were two corpses at Geralt’s feet now, the third dead by Ciri’s hand. Only two left. Jaskier wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or cry. She had deep cuts on her side that ached when she moved, and her hands stung, but she hurried to catch up her uke case again, holding it firmly.

The next barghest attacked from the side, spilling green fire before it. Jaskier could smell something burning and prayed it wasn’t her hair as she desperately rolled out of the way. Ciri launched herself at the creature, stumbling backwards as another suddenly tore into her from the other side, Ciri desperately raising her wounded arm. Geralt was there then, roaring, slicing her sword through the first, and sending the second skidding backwards with a Sign, giving Ciri a moment to get back to her feet.

Finally, there was only one. Geralt and Ciri attacked together, seizing their last drags of energy to speed at the beast. The barghest put up a brutal fight, clawing and snapping until Geralt finally managed to slam her blade through its side, giving Ciri an opening to rip through its sickly flesh. 

It was over, and Jaskier couldn’t stop shaking. Everything hurt and her heart was pounding.

She collapsed to the ground, ignoring the dead creatures, and the putrid sulphur smell their corpses were releasing. Ciri dropped down beside her.

“Hell’s teeth,” groaned Jaskier. “I need a drink.”

“Me too,” said Ciri, mouth tight with pain.

Geralt sat stiffly down beside them and shot Ciri a disapproving glance.

“Don’t worry, I got you Ciri,” said Jaskier, shooting her finger guns with aching hands. It was Jaskier’s turn to be on the receiving end of one of Geralt’s long-suffering glares, her eyes slowly returning to their golden gleam. Jaskier pulled out her miraculously unharmed sunglasses, settling them on her head.

Geralt dug an ancient-looking flip phone out of the pocket of her leather jacket and began jabbing away at the keypad.

“What are you doing?” asked Jaskier, “How old is that thing?”

“There are too many bodies to burn, I’m sending for help.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow. Geralt sighed. “Flip phones are tougher than the newer models.”

They sat for a moment, looking out at the bodies around them, nursing their various wounds and scrapes. Ciri had a nasty bite on her right arm that was bleeding steadily, and several cuts down the left side of her jeans. The patched knees of her jeans were ripped open again, the skin beneath raw and scraped. Like Ciri, Jaskier had torn holes in her dungarees in both knees, her knees and palms skinned and bleeding. The fight had done horrors to her wardrobe, with additional tears up the side of the bright yellow dungarees, and her coat a burning heap over by one of the corpses. She didn’t dare open her uke case or look too closely at the various dents. There was a smear of greenish blood across the smiling sun sticker from that summer folk fest she had played last year. At least her socks seemed to be okay, though her scrunchie was long gone. For her part, Geralt was sporting several scratches up her arms from fighting in close-quarters with the beasts, a bloody cut across one cheek, and there was a weary set to her shoulders. She kept shooting Ciri tired, worried looks, golden eyes tracing again and again over Ciri’s bleeding arm.

“We should go back to Yen. You need healing,” Geralt said to Ciri. Jaskier began to add that she also could use some healing thank you very much when Ciri cut her off.

“No. She’ll see me and blame you,” she insisted, shaking her head decisively. “I’m fine Geralt. I just need a band-aid.”

“I think you’re gonna need a couple of band-aids,” noted Jaskier, and Ciri glared.

“Actually,” continued Jaskier, “We aren’t that far from my apartment.” Which was frankly a terrifying thought, if this was the kind of thing that was happening just outside her front door. “We could go back to my place to clean up.”

Geralt considered for a moment but gave way under Ciri and Jaskier’s pleading eyes. “Fine,” she grunted and pulled herself to her feet. Jaskier forced herself to follow, a sharp hiss of pain escaping when she stood, pulling at the scrapes down her chest. Geralt’s face twisted with worry, but Jaskier waved her off. Jaskier liked attention—loved attention—but Ciri was the minor here. Geralt offered a hand to Ciri and helped heave the tired, wounded girl to her feet.

“We’ll just need to stop at a drug store first,” said Jaskier, and Great hummed sharply. “I don’t actually spend much time patching up demon dog fights.” She laughed then. Geralt looked at her as if she had gone mad, but Jaskier couldn’t help it. It was all so terrifying, so traumatizing, she had to laugh. If she didn’t she would start to bawl, and if she started crying Jaskier didn’t think she would be able to stop.

“Right,” said Jaskier, struggling to get herself under control. “This way.”

The drugstore she led them to was at the end of her street, one of those 24-hour places that never seemed to actually have anyone in it between the hours of two and five am, but was always open anyways. When Jaskier pushed the glass door open, sending the little bell ringing, the lone clerk looked up, eyes bugging when he took them in. Jaskier had to admit they probably looked a sight, singed and covered in blood, swords strapped to Geralt and Ciri’s backs, a battered uke case thrown over Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier nodded at the clerk, pasting on a shinning smile, and led her Witchers over to the first aid selection. Geralt efficiently selected several types of bandages, sterile gauze pads, adhesive tape, a jug of hydrogen peroxide, and antibiotic cream. Jaskier, looking over at Ciri, who was beginning to tetter unsteadily on tired feet, added several chocolate bars to the pile. Thankfully Geralt had a thin roll of cash stuffed in her leather jacket, as Jaskier wasn’t actually carrying much in the way of money. Geralt went over to the front till, while Jaskier busied herself looking over the selection of magazines.

“What’s with you?” asked the clerk, leaning over the glass-covered lottery cards on the counter, to peer closer at Geralt, taking in Geralt’s sword, her armour, and the cut on her cheek.

“We’re cosplaying.” Geralt said, utterly straight-faced.

Jaskier, out of the clerk’s line of sight, was forced to cover her mouth with both hands to prevent herself from laughing at loud. At her side, Ciri hid her own grin, burying her head in a tween-pop magazine.

Jaskier managed to keep it in until they left the store, before howling into the night. “Cosplaying?” she demanded, hands on her hips.

Geralt offered her a weary smile, and Jaskier felt her heart stutter in her chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (tw: the chapter begins with Jaskier and the Witchers finding an unidentifiable dead body. Shortly after this they fight and kill all the demon dogs, receiving minor injuries in the fight. Much of this chapter is devoted to this fight, the fight ends with the words "It was over". I promise we will be pivoting to the comfort part of ‘hurt/comfort’ in the next chapters).
> 
> Ironically, this chapter was written while procrastinating working on a lecture on fandom


	5. Chapter 5

Jaskier brought her trail of exhausted Witchers up the street to her front step, a door wedged between an old used bookstore and a boutique flower shop. Digging in her uke case, trying not to look too closely at the state of the instrument, she pulled out her keys. Her keyring had a large dandelion charm attached to it, a joke gift from a friend she should really get around to calling one of these days. “It’s bright yellow, does its own thing, and springs up everywhere so you have to pay attention to them—it’s you in plant form!”

She turned the key back and forth a couple of times, jimmying the sticky lock. Finally, it opened, and they spilled into the minuscule entryway of her flat, which was largely given over to an exploding boot rack.

“That is a lot of shoes,” said Geralt, keeping a steadying hand on Ciri’s back as the girl gave a massive yawn.

“Oh this is just the overflow rack,” said Jaskier, and Geralt’s eyes widened. Jaskier led them up the thin stairs, into the main room of her studio apartment. She was about half-way up the steps when she realized the apartment had not exactly been clean when she had fled hours before for ice cream. She hadn’t had a student around for a week or so, and she seldom bothered cleaning up for anything else. Paired with her recent disastrous breakup, and the ensuing junk food consumption, dance party and closet cleanout, her apartment was truly a mess. But she couldn’t exactly throw the Witchers out now that she had invited them in, and she definitely wasn’t her mother who actually cared about whether things were clean, so she continued up the stairs, trying not to think about what Geralt would say when she took in the chaos.

“Right here we are then,” said Jaskier, gesturing out to the room as Geralt and Ciri reached the top of the stairs. Geralt looked around silently for a moment, then raised an eyebrow at Jaskier. Jaskier grinned.

One side of the apartment was entirely given over to musical instruments and their accessories, including a piano, an assortment of stringed instruments, and her beloved lute, which was delightfully anachronistic and always popular with the YouTube Bardcore crowd. Jaskier set her uke case on the piano, deciding she would take in the extent of the damage after getting a proper night’s sleep. On the other side of the room was a bright yellow shelf stuffed with books, records, and her pink Victrola. Behind this shelf Jaskier had crammed her single bed. Between the bookcase/bed nook and the instrument corner was a faded cerulean velvet couch; a desk that doubled as a dining table, with her laptop, microphone and camera; a bursting closet; and a little kitchenette. It was small, cluttered, and really quite ridiculously messy, but it was home. It was strange how it all looked the same, despite everything that had happened that night.

“Where is the bathroom?” grunted Geralt, setting her sword on the ground and stripping off her leather jacket.

Jaskier quickly led Geralt and Ciri over to the door set to the right of the piano, hovering in the doorframe as the Witchers took up the bulk of the space in the tiny room. Geralt lifted Ciri up onto the counter and began efficiently sorting through the recently purchased medical supplies. It was clear that Ciri was trying to stay strong, but tears sprang to her eyes and she let out a soft cry when Geralt helped her take off her beaten sweater, the fabric of the sleeve clinging for a moment to the cut on her arm.

“Ciri—here,” said Jaskier, taking off her heart-shaped sunglasses and leaning over to set them on Ciri’s face. “Now you can be the cool one.” Ciri gave her a small smile and turned her head to admire herself in the mirror. Geralt shot Jaskier a thankful look and began cleaning out Ciri’s wound, working quickly. Jaskier, leaning against the door frame, watched closely, entranced by the way Geralt’s strong fingers moved so carefully and surely. 

“You’ve done this before,” she remarked.

Geralt hummed. “Too many times.”

“I’m sorry Geralt,” said Ciri suddenly, tears running down her cheeks. “I’m sorry Jaskier.”

“What,” said Geralt gruffly, rushing to finish wrapping Ciri’s arm, and washing the antibiotic cream from her fingers. Once complete, she pushed back the sunglasses and wiped away the tears on Ciri’s cheeks.

“You both got hurt because I insisted we go on,” hiccupped Ciri.

“Oh Cub,” said Geralt, wrapping her arms around Ciri, who nestled close. “This is dangerous work and we both knew it. You did so well tonight.”

Ciri lifted her head from Geralt’s shoulder to look at Jaskier, green eyes still spilling tears.

“Geralt’s right. I’m the ridiculous one who thought charging a creature of hell with a ukulele was a good idea,” said Jaskier jovially, but continued, her tone turning serious, “I chose to stay Ciri. I knew what could happen. It’s not your fault.”

Ciri hiccupped and managed a teary smile. Geralt held Ciri for a moment longer, before pulling back to finish cleaning and bandaging her bloody knees. There was also a small cut on her face Jaskier hadn’t noticed earlier. Geralt made to put one of the boring tan bandages on it, but Jaskier held out a hand to stop her.

“I have something even better!” Hurrying over to her kitchen, she located the box of Disney Princess bandages and triumphantly carried them back to the bathroom. Geralt looked at them and grunted disapprovingly. It was a grunt that definitely questioned why a grown woman living alone would buy these band-aids.

“These are much more fun,” insisted Jaskier, shoving her way into the bathroom to stand practically pressed against Geralt, and applied the bandage herself. When she was done, Ciri had a Merida band-aid across one cheek, the curly red hair of the character nicely matching the red sunglasses perched on her head.

“Am I wrong?” declared Jaskier, and Geralt only sighed. Still sitting up on the counter, Ciri yawned, struggling to keep her eyes open. The little blinking light on Jaskier’s stove had noted that it was just past 5 am.

“C’mon she can crash in my bed,” said Jaskier, stifling a yawn of her own. Geralt nodded and lifted Ciri up into her arms. Jaskier went before them, quickly tossing the pile of clothes on her bed to the ground in a heap, she could deal with them later. She had washed her sheets a couple of days ago, hopefully they would do. Jaskier rolled back the duvet and Geralt settled Ciri down, gently pulling out her ponytail, and tucking her in. She was asleep almost instantly. Geralt lingered for a moment, gently brushing back Ciri’s hair, and carefully removing the sunglasses to set them beside her on the little bedside table.

“We’re still working out her schedule,” Geralt said, moving away from the bed. “Her homeschooling group meets during the day.” Geralt walked over to the bathroom, looking back over her shoulder expectantly when Jaskier failed to follow. Jaskier jumped to join her.

The bathroom somehow seemed even more claustrophobic now than it had when Ciri was with them, a feeling that truly defied all scientific reason. Jaskier settled on the counter and held her raw hands up for Geralt’s inspection. Geralt hummed and set to work. The hydrogen peroxide fizzed as it worked, and Jaskier hissed in pain. Geralt paused in her work to look at Jaskier, something that might almost be concern on her face. Jaskier bit her lip and nodded at Geralt to continue. If Ciri, a literal child, had managed this then she could handle it.

After wrapping Jaskier’s hands, Geralt moved to her knees. Jaskier propped her feet up on the closed toilet seat, and Geralt kneeled down, to carefully clean away the dirt through the tears in the fabric. Jaskier had watched this woman rip apart a terrifying creature with a mighty swing of her sword, had seen her grit her teeth and launch herself at horrific beasts. Now she knelt before Jaskier, strong fingers soft with the same gentleness she had used with Ciri. It was oddly intimate, looking down at Geralt from her position on the countertop, watching her fierce monster hunter work with such patience. Jaskier may have just come out of a relationship, but she hadn’t been cared for like this—by someone who truly wanted to make sure she was okay—in a long time.

Geralt finished with Jaskier’s knees and stood. “Take off the top.”

“What?!” squawked Jaskier.

“You have cuts on your back that need to be cleaned,” said Geralt gruffly, her pale cheeks growing slightly pink, while Jaskier could definitely feel her cheeks burning.

“Right. Right, yep okay that makes sense,” Jaskier babbled, untying the straps on her dungarees, and folding down the top. Taking a deep breath, she pulled off her t-shirt as well, carefully working around her stiff, sore hands. She was left standing before the Witcher in an unfortunate faded purple bra she’d chosen that morning because it was comfy. It may have been Jaskier’s imagination, but Geralt’s golden eyes seemed to dip low for a moment, before quickly jerking back to Jaskier’s face. Jaskier smirked. Geralt’s quickly gestured for Jaskier to turn around, her hands hovering, but not quite touching, Jaskier’s shoulders. Geralt immediately set to cleaning the two slashes, informing Jaskier in a tight voice that she was lucky it was not worse. Jaskier wasn’t sure if the tightness in her voice was from seeing Jaskier’s wounds, or merely from standing in close quarters with Jaskier herself. Jaskier realized, standing, arms folded across her chest as the Witcher carefully applied antibiotic cream to her back, that she hoped it was the latter. Delightful vibrations crept up Jaskier’s back as Geralt pressed the gauze and tape into place, her hands lingering for a beat against Jaskier’s skin. In the mirror, Jaskier caught a glimpse of the crinkle around Geralt’s golden eyes, the slight curve to her stern mouth.

It was over all too quickly.

Jaskier turned back around, neither meeting each other’s eyes. 

“I’ll go get something to cover up with and then I’ll help you with your battle wounds,” said Jaskier, already fleeing the bathroom. She found a massive flannel shirt draped over her desk chair that didn’t stink, and pulled it on, mindful of her various bandages. She did up the buttons, giving herself a moment to breathe. Everything was almost too much near the Witcher, and her poor heart was struggling to cope.

When Jaskier returned to the bathroom, Geralt had already begun patching up her arm.

“Give me that,” said Jaskier, taking the ointment from Geralt. Acutely aware of Geralt’s golden eyes on her, Jaskier smeared the cream across the long thin cuts, the tip of her tongue out in concentration.

“I usually do it myself,” started Geralt, but Jaskier shook her head.

“You took care of me,” she asserted, carefully laying out a wide bandage across several of the cuts. “I’m going to take care of you.”

Geralt’s arm trembled and Jaskier’s breath caught for a moment when she realized what she had said. They had been simple words when they left her tongue, but hanging in the air they seemed heavier, weighty with meaning. _I’m going to take care of you_. But she meant them. Every word.

Jaskier finished with Geralt’s arms. All that was left was the gash running down her cheek. Jaskier should have done that first, before she uttered those words that still seemed to hang between them, delicate and new. She forced herself to continue. Geralt closed her eyes and breathed heavily when Jaskier brought her hand to Geralt’s face.

“Okay?” asked Jaskier softly, her whisper sounding so loud in the quiet bathroom.

Geralt hummed, and so Jaskier continued. She didn’t bother offering a Disney princess band-aid to Geralt, though it was tempting.

“Done,” said Jaskier, stepping back.

Geralt opened her eyes and looked at Jaskier. She didn’t say thank you, but she didn’t have to. Jaskier could read her thanks in the curve of her lips, in the softness of her eyes, the way the tension in her shoulders seemed to slip away.

Jaskier left the bathroom and collapsed down on the couch. Geralt sat beside her. Any other time, Jaskier might have reached over. But they were both so exhausted, and this was too new, something she didn’t want to break.

“You stayed,” said Geralt suddenly.

“Yes,” said Jaskier, turning to the Witcher. “I promised I would.”

“People don’t always do that,” said Geralt stiffly, looking down at her hands.

“What? Stay or keep their promises?”

“Both.”

Jaskier had only switched on the light at the base of the stairs, and the lamp by the piano when they first entered the apartment. They sat now in half-illuminated shadows, neither making a move to turn on another light.

“Ciri is incredible. I never could have done what she did tonight when I was her age. Or now for that matter. I think the trauma from all this will be setting in as soon as the shock wears off,” said Jaskier, softly so Ciri would not hear. 

Geralt hummed. “Yes, she is.” 

“What was it about tonight? Why did she keep saying she had to prove herself?”

Geralt’s jaw stiffened. “Yen or another Witcher usually comes when I hunt with Ciri. Tonight was the first night without backup, a chance to prove she was ready to move to the next step of her training. She has magic, but she needs more time before she can use it in the city safely. We're focusing on blades right now.”

It was more words strung together than Jaskier had ever Geralt speak.

“And the thing about her ‘destiny’?” asked Jaskier.

Geralt’s face twisted, as if pained. “Her grandmother wasn’t a Witcher, but she hunted monsters once. She was—” her voice halted for a moment, searching, “she was a difficult, fierce woman. The Lioness. Ciri’s destiny was to fight, even before she became my ward.”

“But you worry about her.”

Geralt finally turned to Jaskier, the full force of her golden gaze catching Jaskier in the chest.

“Yes.”

Jaskier nodded, urging her to continue. After a beat, Geralt found the words.

“One day something will kill me. And then it will be on Ciri’s shoulders. Or something will kill her. This is my destiny, and we are bound together by fate, but—”

“She’s so young.”

Geralt nodded.

“I don’t know what will happen—but she’s good, Geralt. She’s really good. She’s wicked with a sword, she’s strong, a bit of a brat with a great sense of humour. She’s a good person. I know it’s literally been like three hours since we’ve met, but it’s clear to me that you are doing the best that you can.”

Geralt smiled.

Jaskier slouched down, resting her head against the back of the couch, her heart a vibrant, wild beat in her chest.

“Jaskier—” said Geralt. “What were you doing out there tonight?”

Jaskier bit her lip. She held her hands up in the air, admiring how tough they looked wrapped up in their bandages. It was a pretty cool look actually.

Geralt shoved her shoulder against Jaskier’s side. 

Jaskier sighed. “Fine. I was gearing up for a nice public breakdown.”

Geralt tilted her head inquisitively.

Jaskier opened her mouth, and everything she had been ignoring since she ran into the Witcher poured out.

“My boyfriend, the fucking dick, ran off with some girl he met at a nightclub and broke up with me over text like some kind of asshole. Valdo fucking Marx” she spat. “I should have known. I think I did know. God. We’d been drifting for a while. But we were working together, making music, and things could be good? But he—” Jaskier let out a shaky breath. Her eyes stung with tears, but she blinked them away. “He never cared for me. That’s clear to me now. He just wanted my music.”

Geralt reached out and took Jaskier’s hand in her own. It wasn’t words, wasn’t a song, but that gesture was the most eloquent thing Jaskier had ever heard.

“He was always telling me I wasn’t making the right decisions for my channel, always demanding I sing backup on a stupid cover of another mindless pop song. And I did. That’s what sucks. I let that happen for too long,” she huffed. “So when he broke up with me, I just took all those emotions and shoved them into a song. And then I recorded that song and put it up on YouTube, something nasty to send to him, you know? I crashed and woke up six hours later to find that someone had turned my video into a tiktock song and that the views on the original were skyrocketing. _And_ I had emails from two different record labels. Suddenly I was _the_ girl who wanted her ex to die horrifically of apoplexy. Which I still do, by the way, Valdo absolutely deserves a nasty death.”

Geralt looked slightly shell shocked, but she nodded at Jaskier to continue.

Jaskier sighed angrily. “It’s not the breakup—I’m over that. It’s the fact that this all spun out away from me so quickly, and now everyone has this idea of who I am, and what I have to do. And I don’t even know! I’ve wanted to make music as long as I can remember—and getting paid for it would be the dream! But nothing feels like me right now.”

Geralt scowled thoughtfully.

“I want to be famous! I know that, everyone knows that. But I’m not going to be stuck in this role of the angry ex. Valdo doesn’t get to fuck this up as well.”

“Destiny is hard,” grunted Geralt.

Jaskier groaned, stopping a second before pressing the bandaged palms of her hands to her eyes. “Fuck! Someone died tonight! I could have died so many times! And yet I still can’t stop thinking about this mess with Valdo, or” her voice cracked, “or the fact that I lost my favourite coat and they don’t make them anymore.” Jaskier looked over at Geralt. “I’m a terrible person aren’t I?”

Geralt shrugged and Jaskier grumbled.

“It’s okay,” Geralt said, “to feel overwhelmed. With monsters and Witchers…And the other stuff.”

“Thanks, I’ll take that into consideration,” Jaskier said, managing a small smile. She would have to have a good cry over everything that had happened in the last couple of hours sometime very soon. A nice big bawl and a serious think about her utter lack of self-preservation instincts and her questionable response to traumatic situations. But for now, she was too tired to do anything but lean until her head rested against Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt stiffened but the tension quickly left her shoulders, shuffling slightly until she was leaning against Jaskier.

Jaskier’s knees and hands stung, and the cuts down her shoulders ached, but she was too tired to do anything else. She’d find some Advil tomorrow. Too tired to linger with the way she fit so easily against Geralt’s side. How safe she felt there.

For now, all she wanted was to rest.

Covered in bandages, dirty, sweaty, and smelling faintly of sulphur, they fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am legally obliged to include one (1) Jaskier rant in every fic


	6. Chapter 6

Jaskier woke to the sun in her eyes, and the sound of her stomach rumbling. Absolutely everything seemed to ache, from her hands to the cuts on her back, to the crick in her neck from passing out at an awkward position on the couch. Her stomach was screaming its demands for food, the sun was brazenly declaring its presence by shooting daggers at her poor tired eyes, and Jaskier had really been hoping to sleep for longer than this. She squinted against the beam of light and groaned. She couldn’t make out the clock on the stove from here, but she figured it would offer some hour that would be ghastly, even if she hadn’t been up all night traipsing around fighting monsters. Jaskier groaned again and forced herself up into a proper seated position. Geralt was still pressed against Jaskier’s side, long legs stretched out, head resting against the couch. She shifted and grumbled when Jaskier moved, but still seemed to cling to sleep despite Jaskier’s continuing attempts to voice her displeasure at the morning.

Jaskier took the opportunity to look at the Witcher in the daylight. She had only seen Geralt amongst shadows, caught in the uncanny beams of the streetlights, in the dim glow of Yen’s expensive orb lighting, or looking particularly washed out by the shitty lightbulb in Jaskier’s bathroom. After all of that, it was strange to study Geralt in the sunlight, to take in the way the warm beams seemed to soften her sharp corners and add colour to her pale cheeks. She looked almost vulnerable sleeping there on Jaskier’s velvet couch, her breathing soft and easy. Jaskier knew with deep certainty that some part of Geralt was always ready, always straining to take in any possible threat. There was no doubt in her mind that Geralt would leap up in an instant, sword swinging, if some ghoul were to suddenly lurch up Jaskier’s stairs. This was a softness made even more rare and precious by the fierceness it encompassed.

“Your stomach is grumbling,” said Geralt. Jaskier jumped, startled from her contemplation of Geralt’s strong hands, the layers of scars like a brutal palimpsest of battles lost and won. Geralt’s eyes were still stubbornly closed, a grumpy frown on her face. Her hair was rumpled, one side sticking up from a night pressed against the couch. Jaskier wanted to touch it, to smooth it down, to mess it up more. 

“Sorry,” she managed, though she knew she didn’t sound particularly sincere. She was only sorry that her growling stomach had woken Geralt, thus halting her opportunity to continue to gaze longingly at the Witcher unhindered. “I haven’t eaten anything resembling a proper meal in far, far too long.”

“What time is it?” asked Geralt, eyes still shut.

“Early. Too early,” offered Jaskier wryly. A soft smile tugged at Geralt’s lips.

“Hm. Do you have any food here?” asked Geralt absently, she didn’t sound hopeful.

“No. Not unless you count expired energy bars as food. Or boxed mashed potatoes.”

Geralt’s nose wrinkled. Jaskier laughed and slumped down, resting her head back on Geralt’s shoulder. It was a gesture that felt bolder in the morning light than it had in the dark, more a declaration than a move brought on by simple exhaustion. Yet, it felt so intrinsically familiar Jaskier couldn’t help but nestle closer, closing her eyes. Geralt let out a soft, contented sigh, and for a moment they stayed that way, clinging to the promises of sleep for just a little longer.

Jaskier’s stomach growled.

Jaskier sniggered, and Geralt huffed something that was almost a laugh, and joy bubbled up in Jaskier’s chest.

“I,” said Jaskier, a bright grin spreading across her face, “think this calls for waffles.”

“hm.”

“Did you say waffles?” asked Ciri suddenly, in Jaskier’s ear.

“Fuck,” gasped Jaskier, opening her eyes to find the girl peering down at the two of them eagerly.

“Good morning,” said Ciri sweetly. “Waffles?” 

Ciri almost jumped for joy when Geralt acquiesced to her demands for waffles.

“I’m trying to limit her sugar intake,” she explained to Jaskier’s inquiring look. 

Jaskier laughed. “You definitely don’t want to know what I’ve been eating then.” 

In daylight, Ciri’s poor hoodie looked even more shredded and bloodstained. Jaskier declared that she absolutely could not wear it out for waffles, lest they have child protection services set on them. Throwing open both doors of her bursting closet, Jaskier set to work looking for something suitable for a twelve-year-old. As she pawed through the racks, she could hear Ciri’s delighted exclamations and Geralt’s sharp hums, two very different responses to the wardrobe Jaskier had been spending far too much of her paycheck on. In the end, Jaskier settled on a soft, green crewneck, which declared in swirling calligraphy that its wearer was “bard to the bone.”

“A gift from my friend Essi to celebrate my first medieval remix taking off,” Jaskier said, in response to Geralt’s grunt of confusion, her explanation seeming to only confuse the Witcher further if Geralt's furrowed brow was any indication. The sweater was large, but it was comfy, and wouldn’t strain any of Ciri’s bandages. It also matched her green eyes nicely. With Geralt’s help, Ciri pulled it on, and rolled up the sleeves, leaving her hands free for easier waffle consumption. Jaskier offered Geralt her pick of items from the closet, but Geralt waved her offer off, grumbling something about her leather jacket being fine and not wanting to spoil any of Jaskier’s nice clothes. Jaskier didn’t retort that technically several items of her wardrobe had already been destroyed in her time with the Witchers, so what was one more really, but it was a close thing.

For her part, Jaskier was delighted to change. As soon as she turned her mind to her dirty, torn dungarees she immediately longed for something that hadn’t endured a showdown with several monsters and several instances of hard contact with the downtown concrete. She thought longingly of a shower, but didn’t dare suggest it. Despite the dark rings around her eyes, and the weary set to her shoulders, Ciri had already stationed herself at the door, sword strapped to her back, eager to leave. So Jaskier made do with seizing an armful of clothing and retreating to the bathroom to wash her face. Feeling inspired by Ciri’s sweater, Jaskier had grabbed her cobalt knit jumper with “art thou nasty” across the front in golden embroidery, which she tucked into a pair of faded high waisted jeans.

Geralt’s eyes widened when Jaskier strolled out of the bathroom, taking in the writing across Jaskier’s chest.

“You should see the matching booty shorts,” smirked Jaskier.

“Come on!” cried Ciri, interrupting Geralt’s attempts to respond.

Jaskier rolled her eyes and pulled on her big blue wool coat, slipping on a pair of yellow vans and jauntily settling a yellow beret over the worst of her messy hair. She strolled over to Ciri, while Geralt slipped into the bathroom.

“What’s the rush kiddo?”

Ciri turned the force of her fervent, fierce gaze on Jaskier. “I’m starving and I haven’t had waffles in ages! Geralt always makes porridge at home.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. Jaskier let out a bark of laughter.

“Here’s your sunglasses. Thanks for letting me borrow them,” said Ciri, carefully offering them over. Jaskier shook her head vehemently and pushed them back at Ciri.

“No proper outfit is complete without a good pair of shades,” she declared. “And I have lots. You can keep them.”

The grin that broke out across Ciri’s face was even brighter than the morning sun.

When Geralt returned from the bathroom, her rumpled hair smoothed back into order, she found Ciri and Jaskier sporting heart and star-shaped sunglasses respectively, matching grins on their faces. She shook her head slowly, with fond exasperation.

“There is this great little place just ten minutes away that makes truly heavenly waffles,” said Jaskier after locking her front door, throwing out her arm in the general direction of the promised delights.

“Where’s your car?” asked Geralt.

Jaskier laughed and set her hands on her hips. “Do I look like I know how to drive?”

Geralt sighed. “I was being optimistic.”

They set off on foot, the swords strapped to Geralt and Ciri’s backs looking particularly out of place in the daylight, among the normal sights and sounds of the waking city. Yet, there was also something comforting to this dissonance. Watching Geralt scowl out at the morning commuters was a solid, tangible reminder that these Witchers weren’t some sort of late-night fever dream conjured by her panicking mind. Like her bandaged hands, they were proof that everything had happened—from the terrifying witches, to the barghests, to that tender effervescent feeling of Geralt’s confident hands gently cleaning her wounds, standing so close in that tiny bathroom.

Jaskier could feel Geralt repeatedly sneaking looks at her now with those golden eyes, sending delightful shivers down her back, always looking quickly away before Jaskier could catch her. Jaskier’s promise to stay, her declaration that she would take care of Geralt, seemed to have shaken the steadfast Witcher to her core. Every time Jaskier turned away, to point something out, to say something to Ciri, she could feel the piercing eyes sweeping across her, as if desperately searching for something. After two more blocks, Jaskier decided to take matters into her own hands. Muttering some nonsense in response to Ciri’s query about the local squirrels, Jaskier kept her eyes set on Geralt. When Geralt made to stare at Jaskier again, Jaskier met her gaze with a steady grin. Geralt frantically turned away, saying something to Ciri in a desperate attempt to cover her move. 

“Obviously I’ll be getting ice cream on my waffle,” said Ciri, “Duh.”

Jaskier laughed, a warm feeling blooming in her chest despite the chill of the morning. She slowly eased closer to Geralt, letting their hands gently brush against each other. Geralt said nothing, but she made no attempt to move her hand away.

The walk to Nora’s Waffle House had never seemed so quick.

True to her word, Ciri ordered one of the incredibly sweet waffles on offer, loaded with three flavours of ice cream, strawberries, icing sugar and chocolate syrup. Geralt looked at her in horror when Ciri proudly rhymed off her choice to the bemused waitress. Not to be outdone, Jaskier ordered the waffle made with chocolate batter for herself, piled high with ice cream and chocolate chunks, and a cup of Belgium hot chocolate. Geralt shook her head, and politely grunted off her order of a plain waffle with strawberries, and a coffee.

“Not even any chocolate? Or icing sugar?” demanded Jaskier, leaning over the table. “Are you sure you know how waffles work Geralt?”

“I think I have no intention of dying of a heart attack.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” said Jaskier, crossing her arms and sitting back against the walls of the booth. “Sugar is an essential part of one’s daily diet.”

“If you’re five maybe.”

Jaskier stuck her tongue out at Geralt, and Ciri giggled.

“Anyways,” continued Jaskier, waving her arms dramatically about. “If I’m gonna go down, too much chocolate on a waffle would be a marvellous way to go.”

With that, her hot chocolate arrived, and Jaskier insisted that Ciri, seated at her side, take a sip.

“It’s so good!” gasped Ciri.

“See you may teach her about monsters, but I’ll teach her about the important stuff like chocolate and sunglasses,” smirked Jaskier at Geralt, who just shook her head and sipped her black coffee.

If Ciri had been delighted at the hot chocolate, her excitement reached new heights when her ice cream extravaganza was set before her. She looked between Geralt and the waffle with wide eyes.

“Enjoy it,” said Geralt, “this is the last sugar you’re getting for the year.”

Ciri shrugged and dug in.

Jaskier waved her waffle laden fork at Geralt, “that threat would work better if you weren’t smiling.”

“I’m not smiling.”

“Sure,” said Jaskier, really drawing the word out, diving back into her own waffle with gusto.

Despite her grumblings, when Ciri eventually admitted defeat and leaned back nursing her full stomach, Geralt silently slid her plate over and finished off the rapidly melting ice cream and the remains of the waffle. Jaskier raised an eyebrow, a smile teasing at her lips. Clearly someone did actually have a sweet tooth, despite her protestations and so-called 'common sense.'

After the waffle plates had been cleared away, Jaskier and Geralt sat nursing their hot chocolate and coffee respectively, while Ciri rested her head in her hands, the copious amounts of sugar she had just consumed warring against her severe lack of sleep.

“What happens next?” asked Jaskier.

“Ciri and I drive Roach back home—”

“Roach?”

Geralt shrugged and looked down at her coffee. “My motorcycle.”

“You’ve named your motorcycle,” laughed Jaskier. “I love it.”

This seemed to distract Geralt for a second, but she eventually found the strains of her thoughts again.

“Ciri and I will drive home and sleep, then spend some time evaluating how the fights went, where she can improve. We’ll need to call Yen, get that out of the way.” Geralt’s mouth twisted when she mentioned Yen. Jaskier got it—she wouldn’t be particularly excited to call her terrifying ex to explain the various injuries the pre-teen they were co-parenting received while under her care, either. Ciri grumbled something half-heartedly but didn’t seem to have the energy to make any further protests.

“What about me? What happens with me?”

“I—” Geralt didn’t seem to know what to say. She looked so unsure sitting there, her forehead crossed with furrowing lines. 

“You won’t make Yen erase my memory?”

“No,” said Geralt quickly, with perhaps more emphasis then was truly required.

“Can we do this again?”

“Waffles?”

Jaskier laughed nervously. “Well yes, obviously, because waffles are wonderful. But I mean the other stuff. Can I come out with you and Ciri again on your rounds?”

Geralt’s eyes fell to Jaskier’s bandaged hands. “Why? It’s dangerous. You got hurt.”

“Yeah, I got hurt. I also had the most terrifying, exhilarating, wonderful night of my life! And I wasn’t lying—I want to write songs about what happened, I have so many ideas. I haven’t felt so inspired in so long. Someone needs to stay and capture what happens! These great acts of bravery deserve to be remembered, even if no one knows the truth woven into the lyrics!”

Geralt’s mouth was hanging open in shock. Ciri pushed herself back up to stare at Jaskier.

“I want to be your—” she thought of Yen’s comment and the words on Ciri’s sweater, “be your _bard_ if you’ll have me. You deserve to have someone telling your story. And believe me Geralt—I want to tell it. I need this. Please?” She clasped her hands together, looking at Geralt with pleading eyes. Jaskier hadn’t realized just how much she wanted this until the words poured out of her. But now that they had been said she couldn’t imagine anything else. She needed this, needed this opportunity to craft her own music, in her own terms, telling the tales of the fantastic and the brave. The music was already singing in her veins.

“Yes,” announced Ciri in the silence. She looked fervently between Jaskier and Geralt. “Geralt?”

Geralt slowly nodded. “Yes,” she said softly, almost too softly for Jaskier to hear.

Jaskier threw up her hands, coming close to whacking Ciri in the face. “Amazing! Thank you! You won’t regret this.”

“I think I already do,” said Geralt, but there was no malice behind her words, and her lips were twisting in something that was almost a smile, her golden eyes fixed on Jaskier’s own.

“Yes!” cried Ciri, catching up Jaskier in a hug. “You’re much more fun than Geralt and Yen.”

“Hey,” grunted Geralt.

Jaskier laughed.

Jaskier walked Geralt and Ciri back to Roach—a name she still couldn’t think about without sniggering. Luckily Geralt had parked the motorcycle only a short walk from Nora’s, in a spot that the city council had designated for ‘Additional Institutional Services.’

“That just sounds stupid,” remarked Jaskier wryly.

Geralt rolled her eyes. “Believe me, I know.” 

The fact that Roach the motorcycle had a matching sidecar just made the whole thing even more delightfully hilarious. Jaskier hung back with Geralt, struggling to keep a straight face, while Ciri busied herself stowing the swords.

“That motorcycle is ridiculous,” she declared.

“Don’t mock Roach, she’s a good machine.”

“Yep, this truly is getting funnier with every passing minute.”

Geralt shook her head with fond frustration and made to join Ciri. Seizing her courage, Jaskier reached out and grabbed Geralt’s hand. Geralt looked down at their hands and back at Jaskier, her face a mask of shock.

“Geralt,” said Jaskier, taking a step forward. “Can I kiss you?”

They stood so close, in a curious mirror of their first meeting all those hours ago, when Jaskier had sauntered up to the Witcher and demanded Geralt bring her along. So much had happened since then. An entire underworld had unfolded before Jaskier’s eyes, she’d finally expressed how the whole fucked up situation with Valdo made her feel, she had bludgeoned a demonic creature with her ukulele, and she had become more than a little obsessed with a certain golden eyed, ferocious, lonely Witcher.

Jaskier leaned closer, carefully telegraphing her intentions, her eyes flicking between Geralt’s eyes and her lips.

“Geralt?” she said softly. Jaskier was all for tearing through life but she wouldn’t push this.

Geralt head nodded almost imperceptibly. Geralt gulped and closed the distance between them.

The kiss was all the soft and fierce parts of the Witcher. It was a promise of wild nights and tending wounds huddled over the same shitty bathroom light. It was the exhilaration of watching Geralt swing her sword, the way her frown twisted into something softer when she was amused or exasperated with Jaskier. This kiss was the exhilarating adrenaline singing through Jaskier’s veins when the monsters lurched out of the shadows. It was a promise of so much more to come, an intoxicating rallying cry. Jaskier’s knees trembled but Geralt wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her steady, her other hand reaching up to gently cradle Jaskier’s face. 

“Are you two almost done? I’m tired!” shouted Ciri.

“I am going to murder that little shit,” hissed Jaskier. Geralt huffed a laugh.

They came together once more until the grunts from Ciri grew too loud to ignore.

“I should get her home,” said Geralt, making no move to walk away.

“Yeah I should probably go get some sleep,” said Jaskier, arms still wrapped around Geralt.

“I’m glad you guys are getting together but do you think you could do the whole kissing thing when I’m not waiting to go home?” Ciri called.

Jaskier snorted. “Thanks kiddo.”

“Ciri,” Geralt said, sounding as if she was praying for patience.

Yielding to Ciri’s demands, they finally broke apart, though Jaskier kept a firm grip on Geralt’s hand as she walked the Witcher over to the motorcycle and the waiting cranky twelve-year-old.

They’d already exchanged cell numbers at Norah’s—honestly Jaskier was more concerned about Ciri having her own cellphone than a sword at this point. So there was nothing left to do but watch Geralt pull on her helmet, and settle onto the bike, while Ciri clambered into the sidecar.

Jaskier shot a smirk at Ciri and leaned in to give Geralt one more kiss.

“You better call me! Or I’ll just go out and recklessly put myself into danger looking for you!”

Geralt rolled her eyes. “I’ll call you. Ukuleles aren’t exactly practical weapons.”

They drove off, Ciri turning in her seat to wave. Jaskier stood by the parking spot, next to the sign with the impossibly dull secret magical agency name, watching until her Witchers were truly out of view. It was only then that she turned, shoved her hands into her pockets, and began the walk home. There was many hours of sleep to catch up on, a long shower to be had, and music to be made. There was also a grumpy Witcher to torment with endless strings of emojis.

Beaming up at the morning sky, Jaskier started to sing. It needed some work, but the words already felt right, ringing bright and clear.

_“When a humble bard…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Geralt! Geralt!” shouted Ciri, pounding down the stairs.  
> “What?” grunted Geralt, looking up from the pot of stew as Ciri thrust a cellphone in her face, YouTube open.  
> “Dara just sent this to me—it’s Jaskier! And she knows a lot of swear words! Did you know that you can rhyme —”  
> “Give me that,” cried Geralt, grabbing for the phone. 
> 
> .....  
> Inspiration for Jaskier's [sweater](http://www.ohpapillon.com/2018/08/create-art-thou-nasty-walkthrough.html)
> 
> next up--a short epilogue of sorts


	7. Chapter 7

Jaskier was waiting in front of her apartment for her Witchers, a string of daisies filched from the flower shop’s cast offs set in her hair. The daisies nicely complimented the floral doc martens she had broken down and bought after almost breaking a toe kicking a drowner when the disgusting creature got just a little too close. Around her shoulders, Jaskier had slung her uke case. The damage from the first fateful night hadn’t been truly catastrophic, and she liked the idea of having an instrument close, so Jaskier had decided to lean into the whole battle ukulele idea. She had reinforced the inner lining and added a sticker that said “Practical Weapon” in yellow block letters, just because she liked the way Geralt’s eye twitched every time she saw it.

A rumbling motorcycle pulled up beside her. Roach, she still couldn’t get over the name. Geralt swung off the bike, took off her helmet, and hurried over.

“Hey you,” said Jaskier.

“hm,” offered Geralt leaning in to pull Jaskier into a kiss. Jaskier had carefully stationed herself on the front step to minimize the height difference precisely in preparation for this. The Witchers of the city took turns patrolling, and it had been three days since she had seen Geralt.

Jaskier could hear Ciri making dramatic gagging sounds as they kissed. Jaskier leaned around Geralt to flash the finger at Ciri, who grinned and gleefully returned the gesture.

“What bad habits are you teaching Ciri now?” grumbled Geralt, pulling Jaskier closer.

“How do you know she’s not corrupting me?” pouted Jaskier.

Geralt fixed Jaskier with a bemused glare. “Because I’m not an idiot?”

After a final kiss, Geralt leaned back to carefully examine Jaskier’s gear. She frowned at Jaskier’s embroidered jean jacket, half-buttoned blouse and lacy bralette, but nodded her approval at the addition of kneepads.

“So what’s on the agenda tonight?” asked Jaskier, clapping her hands together. “Couple of ghouls? A drowner or two? Some sort of twisted nasty that is an unholy combination of an insect and a nightmare?”

“The last one,” grunted Geralt, strapping her sword into place.

“Lovely,” laughed Jaskier. “Let’s go.”

“How are the songs coming?” asked Ciri, and Geralt nodded, echoing her question.

“Great!” sang Jaskier. Between the late-night monster sessions and frantic music composition sprees, her sleep schedule was truly all over the place. But she had never been so happy. She had politely declined both record companies, explaining she needed to remain independent. She had music to make, and she was done with letting anyone say how she should be making it.

Jaskier pulled out her ukulele and strummed a chord.

“If you start playing the Ghostbusters theme song again I will leave you here,” said Geralt.

“Love you too,” laughed Jaskier, strutting over to plant a kiss on Geralt’s cheek.

“Ugh. Can we get on with the monster hunting?” groaned Ciri.

“Yes you ferocious beast, let’s go hack something to bits,” smirked Jaskier.

The night was young and the city was waiting.

Jaskier fell into step beside her Witchers, a grin on her face and heart beating in time with the rhythm of boots on the concrete. 

On to the next adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An end! Thank you to everyone for reading this silly little AU of an AU that got a little away from me. The biggest thanks to L for letting me drag you down this Witcher rabbit hole and for the perfect band-aid suggestions. I promise one day I truly will write something beyond the first kiss (...monsters at Jaskier's first headlining performance downtown perhaps?...) 
> 
> If you missed it earlier, please do take a look at this beautiful art of Jaskier's truly chaotic outfit and face of internal screaming by [@nixmhxllen](https://www.instagram.com/p/CIr1ypbAIzm/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) on Instagram. This is the first time someone has ever made art for something I wrote and I am still buzzing with joy. 
> 
> Edit: There is now a [sequel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27031036/chapters/65991187), where, in true B-Side fashion, I stuff all the things that didn't quite make it into this first story (including the encounter with the elves, Geralt's lovely country cottage, and a truly disastrous first concert)
> 
> [Jaskier's Docs](https://www.depop.com/products/cjg90-dr-marten-pascal-wanderlust-white/)  
> Jaskier's [blouse inspiration](https://ganymxde.tumblr.com/post/190190479612/mortuarybees-i-mean-im-no-expert-on-tudor)


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